


do the fairies keep him sober for a day?

by vavafroome (spaceboy_niko)



Series: twelve days of ficmas [12]
Category: Cycling RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Christmas Party, Hook-Up, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, or an equivalent of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28362849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/vavafroome
Summary: on the twelfth day of christmas, george bennett and sepp kuss wreak havoc.
Relationships: George Bennett/Tom Dumoulin, Sepp Kuss/Wout van Aert
Series: twelve days of ficmas [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2045978
Kudos: 11





	do the fairies keep him sober for a day?

**Author's Note:**

> so it's a day late, and it's way longer, and it's just contrived porn, but can anything better really be expected of me?
> 
> i'm gonna take a little break from writing for a bit because this exercise really drained the creative tank so seeya in the new year!
> 
> (title from merry xmas everybody)

The concept of pregaming feels very American, Sepp argues. George believes it’s a sign of Kiwi cheapness. Both agree that twelve dollars is too much for a vodka tonic, especially when you can get far drunker for much less.

Whoever invented it, they’re indirectly responsible for Sepp and George finishing off the last of a bottle of crappy gin in their hotel room, ten minutes before they’re expected in the event space for the team’s year in review-slash-Christmas tomfoolery.

“Seppy,” George croaks after taking a shot too quickly. “I’ve been thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

George shakes his head. “About _who_. Tom fuckin’ Dumoul-” Fuck, George can barely say his name sober. “Dumo. I mean, look at that guy. Butterfly, my arse, the man’s hot as shit.”

Sepp makes an appreciative noise, and takes the bottle back, frowning when there’s only a splash of gin left.

“I think he’s hung like a fucking racehorse,” George continues. “Just his vibes, you know? Humongous dick energy. I bet he’s packing heat.”

Sepp leans in close, grabs George’s hand tightly. “He is, Georgie. I’ve seen it.”

George’s eyes widen, incredulous. “Sepp, you can’t just say that.”

“Cross my heart,” Sepp says solemnly. “After a time trial, I accidentally walked in on him changing. You get the picture. Point is-”

“Sepp, if the do not disturb sign is up when you come back tonight, I am getting the life fucked out of me by Tom Dumo- fucking whatever it is, so you should go crash with Wout or something.”

“Don’t fucking _talk_ to me about Wout, Jesus,” Sepp groans, and George gleefully realises he’s struck a nerve.

“Wout? Really?” George is getting all fired up to give Sepp the ribbing of a lifetime, but it’s interrupted by the greatest idea he’s had all year.

“Sepp, I’ll make a deal with you. You be my wingman and I’ll be yours. We’ll call it a success if we both get laid tonight.”

Sepp sticks out his hand, and they shake clumsily, before making their way downstairs as hurriedly as they can when they’re well on their way to drunk.

George picks up a glass of champagne on the way in, and Sepp follows suit, and they begin to circulate.

Sepp is eagle-eyed, and spots Tom before George does - across the room in good-natured-looking conversation with Addy, holding a champagne flute loosely as he talks. George stares, realises he’s doing so, and takes a long drink of his champagne.

“I can’t fucking do this,” George whispers. “Look at him.”

Tom does look very good tonight, Sepp has to admit - the event is formal enough for a blazer, but not for a tie, and the first buttons of his shirt are undone enough to give a peek of the space between his throat and his collarbones.

“Let’s mingle, Seppy.” The word _mingle_ sounds particularly funny in George’s accent, and Sepp’s trying not to dissolve into giggles as they steal canapes.

* * *

George has a fucking mouth on him - he can hold a conversation easy as, and so even when he loses Sepp at some point during the night, he’s not totally helpless.

He keeps getting distracted by Tom in his periphery. It takes a beer on top of his champagne to work up enough liquid courage to begin a conversation with him.

Tom smiles when he sees George. “I was wondering how I could keep missing you tonight. You weren’t avoiding me, were you?” he jokes.

“I absolutely was,” George grins, wondering how he can pull this out of the territory of friendly banter and into something flirtier.

“Why? Do our shirts clash or something?” Tom’s definitely a bit tipsy, because he’s hardly ever this keen to engage George in a bit of back-and-forth. “Or will I upstage you if you stand next to me too long?"

"It's like staring into the sun," George says. "You're gonna burn my retinas out."

Tom laughs, and suddenly feels a lot closer. "You're not too bad yourself, Georgie, you dress up well."

 _Hopefully I won't be this dressed for long_ , his brain unhelpfully supplies, and instead he says, "I'm a bit worried, actually, I've only got the one dress shirt and if I spill anything, I'm fucked."

Tom snickers. "Do they remove you if you don't have a shirt on?"

"Don't know, wanna find out?"

Tom reaches a hand up and catches George's wrist before he can even get to his top button, a physical point of contact alongside the burning eye contact Tom is keeping. There is tension, and it is palpable, and George figures if he's going to shoot his shot, now is as good a time as any.

“Wanna get out of here?” George asks quietly.

Tom nods, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. Yeah, shit.”

George doesn’t really remember how they got back to his room, but he does remember it being interrupted by kisses and Tom’s breath hot on his skin, over and over until he’s fumbling to get his room key card lined up properly and Tom’s mouth is on his neck.

“Tom, I’m drunk,” he says breathlessly, flipping around the do not disturb sign, “but I would want this so bad even if I wasn’t.”

“So am I,” Tom answers as they stumble into the hotel room. “God, I want to be in you so bad.”

George whines, and Tom kisses him again, one hand tight in his hair and the other pushing off his blazer, fumbling with his belt buckle, undoing the top button of his fly. He clumsily begins to undo Tom's shirt, thankful the always-awkward top button was never fastened in the first place, and he's about halfway down when Tom unzips him and reaches into his pants.

* * *

So much for wingmanning, Sepp thinks. George is somewhere in the throng, probably still not talking to Tom yet, and he’s left Sepp to fend for himself.

He grabs another flute of champagne off one of the bar tables, turns around, and immediately bumps into Wout. Somehow, miraculously, he manages to not spill any, and Wout puts a hand to his upper arm to steady him.

“Slow down, Sepp,” Wout grins, and Sepp feels his face grow hot. “Have you really drunk that much tonight?”

“Don’t tell anyone, or they’ll cut me off, but George and I started drinking in the hotel room.”

Wout snickers, and makes a motion of zipping his lips. “I could be a good friend and finish your drink for you,” he says mischievously.

“Wout, no, don’t you fucking dare-”

Wout reaches for the glass, and Sepp tries to hold it away from him, but Wout is bigger and has no trouble getting a hold on it. Somewhere in the handover, one or the other of them fumbles it, and Sepp feels his shirt suddenly become soaked.

* * *

 _Holy shit, Tom is hot_ , George thinks, sprawled out on his back in his underwear, and he says so as Tom undoes the button fly on his trousers.

Tom chuckles awkwardly, and George inwardly curses himself, because Tom has stopped undressing himself to kiss him, and while the kiss is really nice, there's a peek of elastic showing through the tantalising open fly, and George wants to see more.

He starts trying to push down the waistband of Tom's trousers, and it's a little awkward, with only just enough give in the fabric to slide down over big thighs, but they manage, and soon Tom is kissing him again properly. He's hot to the touch, all firm muscle, slightly hairy where he hasn't shaved in a while, and George relishes in the rub of his stubble, following his body hair down to the line of elastic at his waist and pulling it down slowly.

George's eyes widen. Sepp wasn't lying.

"Holy _shit_ , Tom."

"Are you going to keep saying that?" Tom asks, eyebrow raised.

“Sorry, sorry,” George says, distractedly. “You’re just full of surprises.”

Tom smiles, and George wants to reach out and touch, but Tom beats him to it, taking off his underwear and tugging down George’s, and then there’s the feeling of Tom’s big cock rubbing against his own, and it’s all such a tease for George.

“Tom, there’s a bag in my suitcase-”

There are condoms and lube inside, and Tom reaches for a condom, but George shakes his head. “I’m clean. You?”

Tom nods, wide-eyed, and slicks up his fingers.

George is willing to admit he rushed this whole thing a bit, because when Tom pulls his fingers out and presses the thick tip of his cock into George, it hurts, not in a red-light way, but in a way that it does when he’s unprepared for something. Tom’s big - he feels way bigger than he looks, working his way in, inch by careful inch. George doesn’t realise he’s shaking until Tom rubs a gentle hand over his hip, and then Tom’s all the way in and George has never felt more full.

“Tom,” George whispers, and Tom understands what he needs.

* * *

Wout stares, wide-eyed, down at Sepp’s chest.

“It’s okay,” Sepp says before Wout can apologise. “It happens.”

“Can we try and get you cleaned up?” Wout asks, and at Sepp’s nod, leads him into the bathroom just outside the function room.

Sepp takes off his blazer, which remains thankfully unharmed, and Wout furrows his brow, feeling the wet fabric with his fingertips.

“Does white wine stain?” he asks.

Sepp doesn’t know, and Wout starts to fidget with the buttons.

“Wout, what are you doing?” Sepp asks breathlessly, but doesn’t make a move to stop him undoing the first few buttons. _Holy shit_ , he thinks.

“You have a spare shirt, right?”

Sepp nods. “Up in my room, though.”

Wout grins, and leans in to Sepp’s ear, and says in a low voice, “I was hoping you’d say that,” and then Wout’s mouth is hot and heavy on Sepp’s.

Sepp unintentionally lets out a soft noise into the kiss, relishing the feel of Wout’s touches through his damp shirt, until he has to breathe.

“We should head up to my room before we get caught,” he whispers, and Wout nods. Sepp shrugs his blazer back on, and they make their way to the elevator, trying not to look too hurried.

There are cameras in the elevator, and Sepp can’t wait for the short trip to be over just so he can touch Wout again, grabbing him by the wrist when the chime goes and pulling him into the hallway, searching frantically for his room. He’s practically dragging Wout along, hoping the door will be just as they left it hours ago, but he comes to a dejected halt outside their room, the bright red do not disturb sign hanging haphazardly on the doorknob.

“Shit.”

“It’s your room, can’t we just-?”

Sepp shakes his head, and explains. “George is in there. He’s...busy.”

Wout nods slowly, the implications in Sepp's tone very clear.

“Can we go to your room?”

“Absolutely not,” Wout replies quickly. “I’m sharing with Rogla, he’d fucking kill us.”

Sepp closes his eyes and sighs, and makes a split-second decision to pull his key card out of his pocket. “Fuck it. You don’t mind sharing?”

Wout doesn’t get a chance to answer before Sepp scans his card and shoulders the door open, and there is Tom Dumoulin fucking a panting George Bennett very, very hard.

Tom freezes, still inside George, and locks eyes with Sepp and Wout. 

George rolls his eyes, clearly irritated.

"Didn't you read the sign?"

"No room anywhere else. Don't mind us," Sepp says cheerfully.

George groans, and shrugs. "You don't mind, Tom?"

Tom looks uncomfortable. “Can you at least use the bathroom?”

Sepp looks at Wout, and Wout looks at Sepp and nods, and without another word, Sepp pulls Wout into the bathroom and shuts the door harder than necessary.

“Well,” Sepp says. “I don’t know why I expected anything different.”

Wout hums, already pushing Sepp’s blazer off his shoulders.

As Sepp’s wine-damp shirt comes off, he vaguely hears George moan Tom’s name, but the sound is lost in the noise he makes when Wout drops to his knees and pulls down Sepp’s trousers.

**Author's Note:**

> fade to black because you're late for your own deadline? i think so


End file.
